Jon is John

If you had to name a dozen children would you buy a book of popular names? Do you have enough rellies to name them after?

After several years along the Alzheimer's trajectory I asked my mother how she came to name each of her 12 children. It was mostly an exercise to keep her diminishing cognitive abilities functioning but was fueled by my curiosity. I'd often wondered how anyone could come up with a name as boring, mundane and plain uninteresting as John. A name so common it was used for anonymity. Her answer surprised me.

The first two were easy; Helena was her mother's name and Peter was my father's name. Anita was my father's suggestion and Paul was quickly changed to Pauline when my 3rd sister was born. Eileen was my mother's sister and Tony, well, honestly I can't remember what Mom said but she'd no relatives so named so it must have come from my father. By the time she got to number seven (me) she said she had an opportunity to name a child with a name she just liked. And I liked that.

But as a youth I didn't. John was synonymous with toilet, a hooker's client, an unidentified corpse, a suggested name on your new cheques and the classic tragedy “Dear John...”.

Remember the movie "A Star is Born"? It was 1976, Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson were on the screen and the opening credits showed the producer of the movie was Jon Peters (apparently he'd been Barbra's hairdresser before elevating himself). I loved the European look and it sounded just...like...John. I liked it so I took it (I take after my eldest brother). Here's an edit: since writing this I applied for an Irish citizenship just because I could and discovered my mother's grandfather - my great grandfather - was named John. Perhaps Mom was further down the Alzheimer's road than either of us wanted to believe, confabulation being her effort to resist.

Mom's gone now and my need to differentiate has long since passed. In honour of my mother's memory and to accept who I am, I'm reverting to the name she gave me...just because she liked it.

Bruges: Photos and Lace

Ever seen a beautiful person, maybe sucked up the courage to say ‘Hi’, maybe even got to go on a date with them only to find out there’s nothing there beyond what you see? Welcome to Bruges. Every city has at its core its working populace, the collective heart beating behind the walls creating, producing and maintaining. Perhaps the city’s raison d’etre is a port, or financial center, or widget manufacturing, or seat of government but without something to give it a reason to live it dies. Bruges is a propped up corpse attracting tourists like flies. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a good looking corpse with buffed up buildings but it feels more like a movie set with false fronts. There is absolutely nothing going on here except tourism and it’s going great. If February with its inclement weather is the slow season, I’d hate to be here in the summer. Every tour boat was maxed out, every restaurant required a reservation and getting a pic of anything without the Jacksons from Idaho or the Gregory’s from Wales in your frame was impossible. And it’s beautiful.

The pictures speak for themselves, it’s no wonder there are so many people wanting to visit. It’s personality is a professional model posing for your pics and I took plenty with so many looking like postcards I had a heck of a time deciding which to post here. As with the Amsterdam pix, I’ll (soon) get around to posting the lot on Flickr.

And as with Amsterdam, the accommodation was my favourite part of our stay. We were in a centuries old home that has been refurbished as a B&B and we had the top floor with a loft for Luka. The owners told us the home had been in the family since 1900 and they did an outstanding job in arranging it for guests. It was, like the city, almost too pretty. Impressive art works and silver serving dishes made it feel like a five star hotel and made me wish we were staying for more than one night.

Our meanderings along the canals and old streets was an education into what the Belgians feel they are best at; lace, beer, chocolate and mussels. I think mussels must be there national food or something cuz they were everywhere. You can get them at a takeout with french fries or as I had them in a saffron/coconut broth with a Leffe blond. While the rest of the world thinks of Stella when they think Belgian beer, the Belgians don’t drink it. It’s not on offer anywhere but Hoegarden, Leffe and a few hundred others are everywhere.

There’s a chocolatier on every street offering everything in chocolate. If you want it in chocolate, be it a statue, a sucker or a pop-in-your-mouth, Belgium, and in particular Bruges, is the place to get it. The lace thing was a surprise but it must be a chick thing. Deb said “Oh yeah, my friend told me if I was ever in Bruges I should buy some lace” and again it comes in umbrellas to tea cozies. Go figger.

So that was Bruges, eye candy and not much more. We boarded a train to Brussels, switched to a train to the Amsterdam airport and as we arrived with time to spare and empty bellies had an opportunity to try Dutch cuisine. For Luka that means McDonald’s, for Mom and Dad it was croquettes (cheese and meat wrapped in pastry and deep-fried). They say Dutch cuisine is an oxymoron; they’re not far wrong but I’ve had worse. Ever tried faggots and mushy peas?

Chocolate and Mussels in Brussels

I suppose life would be boring if everything went as planned. Life has been anything but boring since we left Vancouver so why should today be any different? I tapped out that last piece while we were on a train enroute to Brussels but shortly after putting the ’puter away we pulled into Essen where someone announced in three languages (none of them English) that there was a problem with the engine. “Peut-etre dix minutes” but ten minutes later a second announcement said it would be at least 15 minutes more. The third announcement sounded the death knell for the train. It would go no farther explained the conductor when asked (in English) and we would have to get off and wait on the next platform over for the next train.

So Deb, Luka and I and a few hundred of our closest friends hauled our luggage down one staircase and up another and tried to position ourselves where we thought the doors might stop. Couldn’t have been further wrong; we were equidistant between doors and decided to head to our right. Now the train that pulled in was already mostly full so combining our train with theirs meant it would be tight even without our two large cases, two backpacks and shoulder bag (oddly enough, I’ve been wearing the same clothes all week). As we got close to the door it looked as if the next door down had fewer people and perhaps more space but when we got there we saw they were already jammed. We scurried back to the first door and the conductor was blowing his whistle as I hoisted up Luka and the closing train door mechanically squeezed me in behind him.

The arrivals screen at the station let Guillaume know our train was an hour behind schedule so he was still there when we arrived in Brussels. He had stayed with us for a few months in 2005 and we’d enjoyed his company so were looking forward to see him again. The plan was he’d be our tour guide to Brussels and then drive us to our B&B in Bruges and some things do go as planned.

Our first stop in Brussels was to drop our bags at his apartment, a ten minute walk from the station and then our footour of Belgium’s capital began. There’s the standard sights one should see as prescribed by the guide books but locals rarely if ever visit. And there’s those the locals just shake their heads in disbelief that anyone would want to see them. Like the manneken pis and its female counterpart, janneken pis. They’re small statues peeing but the crowds around would suggest a miracle worthy of Lourdes was taking place. OK, not the best Brussels had to offer but I got my pix.

The cold was winning the weather battle against an impressive sun; great for the fotos, lousy for warmth and honestly, I just don’t look that good in a toque. We strolled the palace, the humongous central square with its ancient buildings and the Hall of Justice but were happiest when we defrosted at our early lunch. The place Guillaume chose was half art gallery, half violin maker shop and all restaurant. When the waiter wasn’t clearing tables he was tending to his instruments, occasionally playing for the guests. Well, not when we were there, but that’s the concept.

A little more strolling then back to the apartment for our bags and the drive to Bruges. An uneventful hour on the freeway and we were on the outskirts of Bruges, a city that doesn’t like cars so we parked, grabbed our bags and started dragging them into the city. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what we found...

Amsterdam to Brussels

Our first early morning (6:30!) because we’re on a three-hour train to Brussels, home of the sprout. It’s another cold, sunny day and our early start gave us a chance to watch the sun come up as we dragged our bags to the train station. The weather’s been one of the best parts of this trip and we got it for absolutely nothing. Amsterdam shone like this our first two days before showing the fog and grey it’s famous for but it didn’t rain so our cycle tours were unimpeded.

We didn’t see everything Amsterdam had to offer but all we wanted to see. Well, all we could see without stressing out ourselves and Luka as we marched him through yet another museum. Our daytrips were liberally interrupted with frisbee breaks and snacks but even so we managed to cover a lot of miles on our six wheels.

The 10,000 windmills that used to be here were used to pump out water, saw lumber, grind grain and more but electricity came along and now there’s less than a thousand. And they’re still working. We rode out to the one at Sloten for a tour of their mill that moves 60,000 litres of water an hour when the wind is right and they’re not hosting a wedding. The tour guide explained that the mill had been moved from its present site a hundred years ago but the locals, suffering windmill withdrawal, held bingos and such to raise the money to buy and move another that was slotted for destruction. For $60,000 they were able to buy, barge and buff up a windmill to tour/wedding/working status...and Sloten’s back on the map. If you’re lucky enough to be there on the 2nd Sunday in August you can get strapped to one of the sails for a taste of how they dealt with criminals 100 years ago. Apparently a little nausea is all it takes to extricate the criminal within.

Another day, another bike ride and this time to the Van Gough museum. We’d bought passes that had a-e levels (‘a’ gets you into cool stuff, ‘e’ you could likely get for free) but the Van Gough is so popular they don’t need to get involved package passes to be seen. We (Deb) bought our passes online which didn’t save any money but did speed up our entrance. The museum has many of his works though not all (Starry, starry night wasn’t there) as well as those artists that had the most influence on his work. I only managed to snap one foto before the stern security guard spotted me.

For the ‘a’ portion of our pass we visited the Amsterdam Dungeon. It’s a 500 year old building with sets designed for different periods of the past and had actors re-enacting the Spanish Inquisition (it went on for a few hundred years), getting waylaid into servitude on a ship and more. Fun, silly and a gruesome glimpse into Amsterdam’s past.



The Artis zoo is too much to see in one day - especially if it’s cold. It was sunny but not warm the day we rode over so interspersing visits to the insectarium and aquarium (both indoors) with the polar bear and apes (both outdoors) kept the frostbite at bay. We saw about half in about four hours which worked out to about $20/hour for the three of us. It was longer than we’d intended but as we’d had the bikes for a few days, the guys at the bike shop didn’t charge us for a few extra hours.

De Beers has a ‘contract’ for getting diamonds out of Africa and most of them come here. Tours of the many diamond factories are at the ‘e’ level and offer complimentary sparkling wine - even if you don’t visit their gift shop. We skipped the wine but Luka couldn’t skip the gift shop where he found his first watch, purchased with his gramma christmas money. We got a quickie private tour that left me educated about how the stones are graded and cut and feeling I need to make more money.

But not all our time was spent out and about. We always enjoyed getting back to our barge and cracking another bottle of wine to go with our books. Wine’s even cheaper here than Wales; less than 4 bucks at the supermarket for something reasonable. We bought steaks one night and fish for the other two nights we were home with Chinese and Argentinian being our choices for dinners out. Our exposure to Dutch cuisine was limited to mayo with our fries and Deb’s deep fried cheese. Loved the Belgian waffles which are eaten more as a hand-held pastry than the knifeforksyrup variety I’m used to.

And now I get to compare them to the Belgian waffles in Belgium. We arrive in another hour or so (so glad I’m not driving) where we’ll meet Guillaume for a tour of the city and a drive to Bruges, the location of our B&B. More as it happens (or soon after...)

Water, water everywhere

“Set your mileometer to zero at the PC World....you’ll see a duck pond on your left.....continue on until the portacabin...” (The directions posted on the carpark’s website.)

And so began our latest journey. This half-term break we’re off to Amsterdam. The directions to the car park were typical for this part of the earth; I haven’t yet tired of not seeing street signs and you’ll note fron their directions there simply aren’t any. You find a starting point, set the odometer to ‘0’ and go. If you pass the set amount, you’ve missed it. Go back to square one and start again. But we didn’t have to do that this time because every time we took a wrong turn, and we’ve started to notice them sooner, we turned around, repointed and resumed. We found the airport with lotsa time.

God loves me. Ok, IF there is a God and IF it’s capable of love, it loves me. I’m feeling the warmth of its Sun as I walk the streets in the most attractive city I’ve seen since leaving Vancouver. The buildings lean over the streets and on their neighbours like a bunch of old friends posing for a photograph. The weather’s god-sent, sunny and still, so a few minutes with a frisbee and the sleeveless feels pretty good. And we’re here in less time than it takes to drive to Penticton from Vancouver. An hour in the air and we were set down a 15 minute train ride from this maze of canals. With my feet now kicked up in our canal boat I can tell you about my first impressions of Amsterdam.

A five minute walk from the train station (“3rd canal over”) is our floating home, a big barge converted to rental status. Full kitchen and full everything means we didn’t have to give up the comforts of home to settle into another city. And what a city. But I’ll tell you ‘bout that in a moment because I think the best part of this trip is where we’re staying. It’s big and warm and cozy and floats in a downtown canal. It’s 60 feet long and 15 feet wide and low enough to fit under all the low bridges but big inside. If the weather was crap, it’d be a good place to hunker down for games and wine and getting rocked to sleep. It’s not cheap ($240/nt) but it’s worth every freaking nickel. Having a kitchen means we don’t have to eat out every night and day and makes me feel more a temporary resident than a tourist. And saves cash.

The canals are the necessary circulatory system of this below-sea-level land. Water has been pumped out of here since 1400 and the canals are used to drain the water but also function as wet streets taking tourists where bikes can’t go. Some cargo still barges down these canals but beyond its prime ordinance to drain it’s primarily a residential/tourism feature. A canal runs along most streets and on each side are one-way streets with bike lanes as wide as the street.

They’re ridden by old men with overcoats over their suits. Young women in skirts, blonde hair and scarfs trailing in the wind, chat on their cellphones as they cruise by. Bikes are the major form of transportation and may be why I’ve fallen in love with this city. Being flatter than a plate of piss means 21-speed aluminum alloy bikes are unnecessary and non-existent. They’re all one-speed monsters that stand as tall as me and force me to sit up as I ride. How very civilzed. They call them “omafiets”, grandmother bicycles, and EVERYONE rides them. They all look a hundred years old and come in black or dark grey. Some have buckets up front for kids or cargo, a third have child seats and they compete with trams, cars and pedestrians for space.

The guidebook says there are 2,000,000 residents in Holland and 2,000,000 bicycles so the roadways are designed for them. The bike lanes have painted lines and their own lights at intersections and while assholes come in both two and four wheel varieties, the bike traffic is quite civilized and patient. None of the ‘head down, you’re in a race’ posture that afflicts riders where riding is less common. When the bikes aren’t in motion they’re chained to the railings around the canals and form part of every street scene. There’s dynamos (remember them?) turning on the front wheel to light your way home (unless you stop) and the ladie’s bikes have artificial flowers woven into their baskets.

We rented bikes for our stay and they’ve allowed us to see the majority of this city, much of it again and again. The local alleys feel like long entrance halls to our floating home, the railings our personal garage. People here use the city as their home and when not working are in their local cafe only returning home for food and sleep. All else comes from the city and perhaps it’s just the wonderment of the tourist but this is a wonderful place to be out and about.

It’s reminiscent of Gastown, Vancouver’s grasp at the past, but more authentic with 500 year old buildings housing everything the hungry tourist could want. Hungry for company? We’re just off the red light district where you can check out potential companions in their skivvies at the windows that line the streets. Or satisfy that hunger of another kind at a ‘coffeeshop’ where you can buy a gram of this or two of that and shoot a game of pool. There’s a well-established chinatown and prices here are ‘European’. Wine’s cheap, restaurants aren’t. Two coffees, a pastry and a shake for Luka; $20. Meal at a cheap restaurant for 3; $60.

Just the natural sights are enough to engage the newbie. Strolling down the streets with every bridge a photo-op takes up hours, mix it up with a little window-shopping (nudge, nudge) and the days are filled. But this is also the home of Rembrandt...and Van Gough and a host of others so museums abound. Amsterdam was once the largest, most important port in the world. Money, product and people flowed to and from its shores leaving it touched by the best the world knew , some of which remains. I’ve seen some, wanna see more, will tell all...

Things I Like In Wales

After all the ranting I’ve done about the UK’s shortcomings, I’m sure I’ve given the impression that I hate it here. And it’s true. But there are things I like and even wish were done the same in Canada. If I were from here or even an immigrant here, I’d turn a blind eye to the offensive elements and see nothing but the positive; who would want to be dissing their home? But it’s not home, it’s just a temporary arrangement and thus is constantly being compared to home. Sometimes favourably. Here’s a few things I like.

I’ve often complained about the twisting, narrow, unmarked roads that burn up the expensive fuel but they have necessitated smaller cars with smaller engines that have a smaller impact on the environment. To encourage people to ‘go small’, the government charges a “Road Tax” that is tied to the size of the car’s engine; the smaller the engine, the smaller the tax. It’s an idea that was floated in Vancouver not so long ago and unsurprisingly was defeated by voters. All those commuters idling in their 4x4’s on the freeway didn’t see the value in giving more of their disposable income to the government. But it transfers the expense of developing and maintaining roadways to the people that use them and makes them responsible for the environmental damage they cause. I don’t get a break on my taxes by riding a bike.

Highchairs in the pubs. Maybe it normalizes drinking for the kids and maybe even encourages them to start drinking sooner (drinking age is 21), but I doubt it. Longitudinal studies would be needed to assess the long term outcome of allowing children into pubs but the pubs are central to the culture here and not just for alcohol consumption. People come to meet their friends,watch a game, celebrate or commiserate. It’s a focal point of the community and I was pleased to see children sitting on their mother’s laps when I went to local pub to see Wales take on England. Kids played, parents high-fived as the Welsh rugby side earned a win and stoked the national pride. Shouldn’t kids be a part of that? Is it any different if the Grey Cup party is at my house where the cheaper alcohol flows even faster? Perhaps excluding the children would only deepen the mystique and heighten the anticipation for them so that when they’re finally allowed in they’d explode onto the scene with more vigour. They are excluded after dinner hour. Fair ‘nuff. They might get stepped on.

The postal service is amazing. If I post a letter today, it’s anywhere in the UK tomorrow. I sent a book recently to a friend in Warrington, about the distance to Kelowna from Vancouver, a 3-4 hour drive. She texted me the next day to say the payslip I’d used as a bookmark was still in the book and she’d mail it back. I got it the next day. AND they have deliveries on Saturdays.

The wine here is cheap and sold in the supermarket. I can buy quality wine that would cost 30-40% more in Vancouver - even cheaper if it’s on sale - and I like to be able to buy it with my groceries. I like that the stores compete for customers and treat wine like any other product on the shelf. It also highlights the expense that import duties add to wine in order to protect local producers. My feeling is that if Canadian vineyards can’t produce a competitive product in both price and quality then maybe that land could be used for growing something more viable.

They don’t have central heating here, in fact, many of the houses had no heat at all until houses were retrofitted with a central boiler to supply both hot water and heat. Newer houses have followed in their footsteps and most heating here comes from the radiators in each room. Not only does this allow different temps in each room it’s an awesome place to place your laundry saving a ton of money on electricity which is very expensive and is provided, in a large part, by coal burning plants. More money in my pocket, less pollution in the air.

If Deb were writing she’d tell you about the horrors of the school curriculum and honestly I don’t like the way they treat kids here. But I do like school lunches, after school clubs and a holiday every six weeks. There’s a ‘breakfast club’ every morning so parents with an early start can drop off the kids on their way to work and after school there are supervised sports or art activities to keep the kids safe and entertained until Mom or Dad returns. The schools also provide nutritious lunches very cheap. I couldn’t pack a sandwich and a piece of fruit as cheap as they provide a hot meal with dessert and milk.. The school year runs longer here than in Canada - about a month - but there’s a week long holiday every six weeks which provides respite for young minds and opportunities for families to spend time together. Of course I’m biased because we use that time to travel but it also allows better use of the buildings and opportunities for maintenance work.

The road tax, tv tax, sales tax, income tax, fuel tax and who knows how many other hidden taxes leave the populace with less money in their pockets but fund social programs thay increase the quality of life for those unable to adequately care for themselves. There are malingerers, as there are everywhere, but everyone is guaranteed a decent standard of living - even the mentally ill. In Alberta, the richest province in Canada, they give the least amount to the disabled. In Vancouver a disability pension ($857/month) puts the recipient so far below the poverty line that to rise to it would double their standard of living. In the UK the mentally ill wear decent clothes they’ve purchased in a store, not a handout from a charity. They can occasionally enjoy takeout, even own a phone. It’s embarassing to describe the financial condition of our mentally ill in BC. With all our wealth, we should be ashamed.

And finally: the architecture. We just don’t see this stuff in Canada. Quebec has some stuff from the 1800’s, this place goes back forever. Most of the impressive buildings were built during its economic heyday in the 1800’s when coal and shipping and the British Empire were supreme. But I’ve visited graveyards here with dates from the 1700’s and castles with Roman remnants. Thousands of years of history underfoot. I love walking the streets and gawking at the old stuff, imagining the lives that have passed through there. It’s why I put my Canadian life on hold.

Staying connected

I’m watching the superbowl. I haven’t watched an NFL game all year which isn’t surprising because I don’t usually watch their game when I’m in Vancouver as I prefer the Canadian version and their season coincides with the game of the gods, hockey. I don’t know how I would have got the games here in Wales had I wanted to watch them but I’ve been able to get hockey so it’s likely I could’ve found football. By subscribing to Settanta sports which has a package of eight sports channels (uh,huh. Eight. Two just for horse racing)I was able to get NASN (north american sports network) which carries NHL, college basketball and NASCAR. Haven’t watched NASCAR yet; there’s always some paint drying somewhere that carries more interest. Most sports fans here subscribe to Sky sports because they carry the big soccer and rugby games. I go to the pub for that.

The game is being broadcast by the BBC because, as their British announcer put it, it’s the biggest sports ‘spectacle’ in the world. And besides, it didn’t start until 11:30pm so it doesn’t clash with any other sports programming. They offer a beginners guide to American football on a sub-channel for all the baffled Brits to bring themselves up to speed on the rules and have found some lesser known ex-players with announcer aspirations to provide colour. What’s most interesting is that because the BBC doesn’t have commercials, I’m missing out on some of the most lavish ads ever produced. The superbowl has the highest pull of any program ever and so commands top dollar from advertisers who in turn produce their best ads for this event.

And the reason there’s no ads is BBC is funded entirely by a tax collected by the government called the TV licensing fee. Yep. You have to have a license to watch TV. And they have vans with electronic TV detection equipment that roam about looking for evaders with enormous fines for those trying to watch TV without a license. ALL the houses here have an antenna on the roof, I hadn’t seen them in millennia, because once you get your license you can actually pick up half a dozen channels for free. But if you want the full pull - sports, movies, Coronation Street - you either get a cable or a satellite dish and then it starts to get expensive.

Telecommunication here is very expensive. Telephone, internet, television and cell phones are offered by a dozen or more different companies but that hasn’t kept the prices down. You pay by the minute for every phone call, even on your landline and cell phone rates are comparable to what I was paying back in the '80's, about 30 cents a minute with the landline being about half that. The tv channels are grouped such that you need to get several packages to get something for everybody in the family and are euphemistically named medium, large and extra large; remind anyone of Starbucks? Movies are available on demand but we get ours in the mail for greater selection at a greater price. The phone company wanted $225 to hook the house up to a landline so we’ve opted to get our landline via cable from Virgin who sold me a package for telephone (medium, based on price per minute), television (large, based on number of channels) and internet (large, based on speed). The cable was already in place so all we had to do was agree to a one year contract and give them access to our bank account. We had to go to a different company for our cell phones because apparently we do't have sufficient credit history here to qualify for one from Virgin. I know, getting set up here was a frustrating, time-consuming business but we've now got internet and the superbowl. Which, by the way, is still on so I’m signing off with a promise to write up all the things I like about being here. I’m in danger of becoming another “whinging Welshman” (the English view of the Welsh) and there’s actually lots to love about life this side of the pond.

My Daily Commute

I came around the bend in morning’s half-light, my two wheels humming their bicycle tune against the paved path. Nightshift had left me bored to exhaustion so that my commute home was a moving trance, my legs pumping their steady cadence as my mind recited a drummer’s mantra;1,2,3,4,1,2...

A hundred feet ahead, just off the path, the dog’s movement caught my eye. Smallish but lean and well-muscled, he turned and locked on to me just as I noticed him. His ears pricked, his face expressionless on his square head. Motionless. “A bulldog” I thought. Good. Could have been a pit bull or some other such nasty breed that doesn’t respect the difference in size and combines fearlessness with tenacity. People and dogs like that scare the shit out of me.

I saw the owner a further 100 feet up the path with his back to me. He was strolling in thought, head down with his hands behind his back loosely holding the dog’s leash. Unaware of my approach or his dog’s location, he was oblivious to the mayhem about to explode.

The dog crouched slightly as a low growl grew behind bared teeth. “Oh shit” What do I do?!? I panicked as best I could. As the dog sprang from his position and sped towards meI fanned my tiny little bell like an old west gunslinger; dingdingdingding. Trying to stop a locomotive by piling pillows on the track would have been more effective. I fought my first instinct - freeze! - but I also knew I couldn’t turn around on the narrow path and get up enough speed before he got to me. I stood on the pedals and went straight at him. Maybe he’d be intimidated by my boldness, maybe I could hit him with my front tire, maybe crack a rib and go blump, blump over him. No chance, he’d seen that movie. When we were three feet apart he leapt over the front of the bike coming straight at my head, teeth bared, spittle flying...

OK, none of that actually happened but I think about it every day as I come around those bends and see loose dogs with unattached owners. None have so much as barked let alone snarled at me. The greatest danger they present is their annoying habit of straying into my path forcing me to slow down and ding my bell. The owners respond to the bell better than the dogs and generally call them over. Even so, with so much time in my own head, the ruminations are as dark as the woods and the mantra isn’t “1,2,3,4” it’s “Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh MY!”

I’ve been riding my bike for the half hour commute to Whitchurch hospital and winter being what it is, I usually have to do it in the dark. The path I take runs along the River Taff and three seasons out of four it’s a beautiful, peaceful prelude or conclusion to work. But winter’s different. In winter the rain is only occasionally interrupted by a break in the clouds and the only light I see is fluorescent. Today it was hail (we’ve had no snow) but the worst conditions are on the those days with squally winds. The wind blows hard here and changes direction constantly threatening to blow me over or stop me cold. With thighs burning and set to the lowest gear I lean into those days and dream of home. Give me Vancouver’s hills and nasty drivers, its rain, its snow, its bike theft and potholes...maybe not. It is, after all, only the winter that challenges my aging bones and cycling is its own reward. Freed from the stress of driving here my mind has the freedom to roam.

When the weather’s nasty it roams to the dark places but it’s usually a powerful time, allowing me to reflect on who and where I am and where I’ve been. It gives me time to make connections between the short stories of my life, looking for the common theme. Sometimes I plan, sometimes I sing. It’s where I imagined writing this....